


The Aim Was Song

by MayhemHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sabrina Movie AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Business man Mycroft, Business mergers, Engagement, Fluff and Smut, He's like Tony Stark but way too serious and no fun, Inventor Mycroft, John is still a doctor, Johnlock Endgame, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystrade endgame, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Pining, Playboy Sherlock, Rating will go up to E, Younger Greg, author plays fast and loose with real life facts, that will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemHeart/pseuds/MayhemHeart
Summary: The Holmes parties were always grand and breathtaking. The backyard, decorated with millions of tiny soft lights twinkling like fireflies against the backdrop of the evening sky, made the place feel enchanted. Larger lights stretched overhead like stars, tangled in the ivy vines like petite flowers, and wrapped around grand arches like luminous jewels.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	The Aim Was Song

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go? I got this plot bunny awhile ago and I've agonized over this chapter for weeks now lol. I just hope you guys enjoy it and I will update as frequently as I can. The endgame is Mystrade/Johnlock, it's just going to take our boys a bit to get there. All mistakes are mine. <3  
> The title is from Robert Frost's poem.
> 
> Edit: Adjusted everyone's ages to make it all fit better.

Greg Lestrade looked out over Holmes' party from his hiding spot up in his treehouse, if one could call a few pieces of wood paneling shoddily put together with nails and rope a treehouse. Greg had been proud of it at the time; his eight-year-old self felt immense satisfaction when he had finished construction, with his father's help. They had even cut a small window in one of the walls to overlook the backyard, which was currently where the party was. The rope ladder had fallen apart years ago, but it didn't stop Greg from scrambling up the trunk with bare feet and hoisting himself up with large hands. 

The small spot was an ideal fit for a child, but at nineteen, Greg now had to fold himself awkwardly together to sit comfortably inside. The oak tree's thick branches had grown into the wood over the years, becoming one with the man-made structure. The moss, dense leaves, and shadows helped to obscure the small sanctuary. The oak was near his family's little flat above the Holmes' garage (where no one would wander by), and the party was a good few yards from him, so he felt secure in his voyeurism. 

The Holmes parties were always grand and breathtaking. The backyard, decorated with millions of tiny soft lights twinkling like fireflies against the backdrop of the evening sky, made the place feel enchanted. Larger lights stretched overhead like stars, tangled in the ivy vines like petite flowers, and wrapped around grand arches like luminous jewels. The live band currently played an upbeat instrumental version of Call Me Irresponsible, filling the air with the rich harmonics of piano keys, the double bass's deep thrum, and the cymbals' soft tss. Greg could feel the music in his bones, and his fingers tapped out the beat against his thigh. 

The socialites dressed in similar black and white colors conversed merrily with their neatly pressed suits and flowing extravagant dresses. Servers with silver trays weaved throughout, offering champagne and lavish delicacies. Greg guessed there were over a hundred guests tonight, in celebration of Holmes senior's retirement. He was surprised they even had an official party for it since their eldest son, Mycroft Holmes, had been running the company on his own for years now. 

Of course, Mrs. Holmes would use any excuse to throw one of her famous soirees. The Holmes family never did anything less than over the top. They were a family of geniuses, and their intelligence helped catapult their business to dominate the technological field. Mr. Holmes had been an engineer and inventor, and Mrs. Holmes, an exceptional mathematician. Together they launched Holmes Industries, first working with the military on AI technology and then expanding into ordinary households with smartphones and cars. 

Mycroft Holmes, rumored to be the smartest one in the family, had started working with his father right out of college at the age of eighteen. While he had contributed to the development of the renowned Holmes security systems that included infrared and HD cameras with fortified encryptions, he now dealt with the day to day business dealings that came with running a multibillion-dollar company. The now twenty-nine-year-old was all work; Greg had never seen him take a vacation or even relax. Even as children growing up, Mycroft's demeanor was always severe and inflexible. 

And then there was _Sherlock_. Greg could always find the tall figure in a crowd, and his heart skipped as he spotted the man in question. Amid the formally attired bodies, Sherlock stood out in his tailored black slacks, and dark plum button up with the top buttons undone, showing off pale clavicles. Sherlock's striking eyes narrowed as he looked out over the party, a bored pout to his full lips. The lights reflected off his elegant cheekbones, and dark curly hair artfully styled like he just had a good shag. Sherlock was sex on long legs, and devastatingly handsome. Greg's chest squeezed painfully with want. 

Sherlock sauntered through the crowd with nonchalant grace, giving small nods of an acknowledgment as he passed by attendees. Greg watched as long fingers suddenly reached out and grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray; Sherlock spun his body around fluidly, bringing him to face a young blonde man standing alone. From this distance, Greg didn't know the words exchanged, but from the flirtatious tilt of Sherlock's lips and the blush on the tall blonde's face, he knew that Sherlock had found his catch of the night. 

Greg felt jealousy crawl up from his stomach and into his throat, threatening to choke him, but what could he do? He was nobody. Greg's father was the Holmes' loyal chauffeur and had been for over twenty-five years, and even though Greg had grown up with the older Holmes brothers, he felt he was always left in the shadows. For a while, Sherlock had let him tag along on various adventures. Searching through the forest for different insects for "research" or helping to track down Mrs. Hudson's stolen bracelet. Greg had felt useful, _wanted_. It was probably where his hero-worship had developed only to steamroll into an embarrassing crush. But then one day, Sherlock just... left. 

It was only recently that the brothers had moved back home, although Mycroft had a flat in the city where he spent most of his time when he wasn't working. It was misery for Greg and exhilarating at the same time. He could be in Sherlock's presence and have the occasional short, polite conversation with him, but he had to deal with the fact that the man was a horrible flirt and way out of his league. Sherlock went for fit, beautiful men, women, and gentlethems. Greg could never turn heads with his awkward body and skinny limbs that never wanted to cooperate. 

He felt like he still had the body of a sixteen-year-old instead of a man's. His smooth face with big eyes and childish roundness made him look younger, and despite Mrs. Hudson's insistence he would eventually grow into it, he felt like he would have to have gray hair to ever look like an adult. The tips of Greg's hair brushed his chin, and he tucked it back behind his ear as he watched Sherlock dance, whispering to the blonde and holding him close as they swayed across the lawn. Greg sighed, it was so unfair to be so close, yet he could have been on the moon for all that it mattered. 

Greg didn't care that he knew how Sherlock's night would play out; he just wanted to be the one Sherlock looked at like that. He wanted to be the one that Sherlock wanted. As predicted after the dance ended, Sherlock tilted his head towards the estate's dock that was a distance away by a small lake, and the blonde nodded shyly and took off towards that direction. The dock (if you could call it that) was a small boathouse with a stone exterior, with three sides only so the open space faced the shimmering dark water. It was furnished boho style with hammocks, floor pillows, vines, and more lights. It was beautifully intimate, private, and where Sherlock brought all his lovers. 

Every time, Sherlock would have his partner go to the boathouse first while he went and got a champagne bottle and two glasses. Then he would take a roundabout way to the boathouse to avoid suspicion, coming over to the garage and then circling back towards the dock. Greg watched Sherlock get his provisions and started making his way towards Greg's hiding spot. Greg inhaled sharply, tasting the sweet air on his tongue. 

Heart racing, he scrambled to unfold himself from his perch and dropped down to the ground, his bare feet making impressions in the dirt as Sherlock passed by. The taller man slightly jumped and turned his face to Greg but didn't stop his stride. Greg felt his face flush hot as blue virescent eyes briefly meet his, and he nervously moistened his dry lips. 

"Hello, Sherlock," he said with a shy smile. 

"Oh, Gavin," Sherlock said and gave the barest of nods, "thought I heard someone."

Greg felt his stomach drop, and he shoved his hand in his pants pockets, shoulders slouched. No, it's nobody, he thought as he watched Sherlock's retreating form turn at the garage and head towards the dock. His heart stuttered in despair, and he bit his lip until it throbbed like his pulse. 

***

Greg tried to be silent as he entered the flat's front door, but his father was still up, relaxed in his armchair. _Busted_. Lucas Lestrade had a book in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other.

"Spying on the party again, or should I say, Sherlock?" His father asked, not looking up from his reading, his salt and pepper hair still damp from his shower. 

Greg rolled his eyes and lied, "of course not."

His father glanced at him briefly and looked back at his book. With a knowing smile, he said, "you have bark and moss in your hair, Mistral"

"Oh my fucking god," Greg groaned, ignoring the nickname and hurried to the small bathroom a few steps behind the armchair. He tried not to look at his red cheeks as he brushed out the debris, shoving his fingers roughly through his tangled hair. No wonder Sherlock barely gave him notice when he always looked like a muddy forest imp, in his rumpled grey shirt and jeans. His mother used to joke that he _flew_ everywhere he went instead of walked. That he always looked windswept and untamed.

"It's a good thing, Mistral," she would say, using her delicate fingers to fix his hair, "It means your soul is untroubled and free. Never stop flying, my love, keep dancing to the wind's song."

But Sherlock doesn't want wild and untamed, Greg thought bitterly. That advice was for a _child_ that didn't have to live in the harsh reality of the world. No grown man wanted that, definitely not someone like Sherlock. Sherlock wanted sophisticated, suave, and sexy. Not for the first time, he felt a deep suffocating ache, wishing his mother was still around, to ask for her advice. To see if her wisdom would have been different for an older Greg or if she would have just ruffled his hair and told him to keep dancing. 

"Greg..." Lucas' gravelly voice carried from the other room, cutting through Greg's thoughts like a hot knife. 

Greg looked at his lost expression reflected in the mirror, the blur of wetness in his eyes, and he closed them, refusing to give in to the torrid emotions brewing beneath the surface. Tonight was just not his night. "Don't-" he croaked out like a dying frog and cleared his throat, "don't say it. I know you want to, but please, I already know-"

"It's not healthy," his father interrupted.

Greg sighed and hung his head. Tonight was just going to get worse; he could feel it. Begrudgingly he walked back out and stood next to his father's sitting form, avoiding eye contact.

"I worry about you," his father continued, setting down his empty glass, "you need to start living your life and stop pining for that boy."

"I'm not pining," Greg crossed his arms and lifted his chin, jaw clenched.

Mr. Lestrade put his book aside and took off his reading glasses, giving Greg a pointed look, "That right there, is why this trip is going to be good for you."

"I don't want to go to Paris," Greg spat out.

Lucas stood up and put his hands gently on Greg's tense shoulders, tired pale green eyes met Greg's rich brown. "Son, it's only for two years. You will be back before you know it."

"But...what if Sherlock forgets me?" Greg hated how small his voice sounded. 

"Greg, he can't even remember your name!"

Greg flinched. 

"I hate to point it out, but Sherlock is too busy being a rich playboy to notice you. You deserve better than that. You can't live your life being a self-proclaimed wallflower. You need to live, explore the world. Get away from here. Make friends."

"I have friends!" Greg said, affronted, ignoring his father's painfully truthful words.

"Your only friends here are the staff."

Greg stepped back and shrugged off his father's hands, "so what? They are _family!_ And I like them. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mike... even Anderson."

Lestrade senior raised a grey eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe occasionally for Anderson because he is a wanker."

Greg watched his father sigh and rub his eyes, "Trust me please, Mistral. You are fortunate that Mrs. Holmes was able to pull strings to get you into art school. You talked about this for years, don't waste your talent because of one person."

"I'm not wasting anything if there is nothing to waste," Greg said and tried not to sound as petulant as he felt. "They are just doodles anyway."

"Anyone who has seen your _doodles_ would beg to differ. Your mother wouldn't have wanted you to miss this opportunity. What would she say now?"

It was a low blow, and they both knew it—the unspoken agreement between them to not use his mother's memory as a pawn. His mother had been a fantastic artist, her favorite medium watercolor. She could paint a rainy afternoon, the sounds of the lazy droplets on a windowpane, and the smell of warm tea on a table translated into a beautiful scene on cotton that looked so soft and delicate. She could capture the sting of a winter morning on your face as the first rays of the sun started to melt the frost on the ground using only _color_. 

Greg never found it easy to use paints the way she had, but he had fallen in love with charcoals and pastels. He liked how the smudge of graphite could add depth or texture to a drawing. How the thickness of lines could convey sensation and movement. She had encouraged his art very early, and pursuing art school in Paris was something they talked about together. It has been her hope. But it was something he was supposed to experience with _her_ , something he was supposed to be excited about with _her_. 

Over the years, he had let that dream fade. He loved to draw, but each stroke was a painful drag on his heart. When he agreed to go to Paris, it had been out of politeness to his father's employer. He didn't have anyone over there, at least here he had Sherlock. Even if Sherlock didn't remember his name or _really_ see him, it still made his core happy to see Sherlock. Suddenly it was too much, and his mother's paintings hung around their flat were far too loud in their memories. 

"I need to go for a walk," he said stiffly, fleeing the room, his father's reply muffled by the closing door.

***

Greg wandered around the grounds for a while, the music had stopped long ago, and the guest departed. The only ones left were the cleanup crew who were busy in the backyard; come tomorrow, you wouldn't be able to tell there had even been a party. Everything would be neat and tidy, a picture of perfection, and Greg would be getting on a train to Paris.

He was headed back to his flat when he saw the light in Sherlock's bedroom in the main house and stopped short. He suddenly had a crazy, desperate, and bloody _stupid_ idea. He would later blame the stress of tomorrow for blocking out all sense of logic and reason. Quickly he let his feet travel the familiar route into the silent house and up the stairs to Sherlock's suite.

Steeling his nerves, he took a deep breath and knocked quietly on the door. There were a few seconds before he heard a muffled, "enter."

Greg tentatively walked into the dim minimalist room of soft white, his feet stepping onto the plush silvery gray carpet and he flexed his toes. He looked at the empty king-size bed in the middle room with its ridiculous thread count sheets of navy blue. Behind the bed was a dark grey divider wall no wider than the bed itself, light spilling from behind it. Sherlock's extensive wardrobe was behind, and he saw Sherlock's long, lean shadow spilling out across the floor. He saw the shadow move, Sherlock starting to step out into view. 

"Don't come out!" Greg blurted, "I...I'll lose my nerve if I look at you." Greg curled his shaking hands into fists, "Sherlock-" He began, and his breath hitched as he heard an inhale from the closet as if Sherlock was getting ready to interrupt.

"Don't talk either," Greg pleased, " _please_ , just let me..." He took a deep breath, "I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow...for two years. Art school," he licked his dry lips, "I can't live with the thought of going to Paris and not having you know my feelings..and...and if this goes poorly at least, we won't be running into each other for a while."

Greg tried to keep his fragile control steady, but his voice still shook, "I love you, have always loved you, and I know you don't love me- that's fine!" His voice wavered, "but I had to tell you. I..I'll miss you, and when I come back, I promise I won't be as awkward." Greg winced, babbling, "And... if you want me to bring anything back, let me know."

"Perhaps one of those Eiffel tower-shaped paperweights, I require a new one," a light and crisp voice responded. A voice that was not the deep timber of Sherlock's and to Greg utter horror _Mycroft Holmes_ stepped into view, his profile sharp and refined. "A paperweight that is, Sherlock needed the last one for an experiment."

Greg felt ice waves spread through him; his embarrassment was so acute it was a physical pain down to his bones. "Oh fuck me," he whispered harshly, frozen to the spot.

Mycroft left eyebrow rose a fraction and he gave a bleak, tight-lipped smile, his icy blue eyes were like bits of stone. "Gregory, it was not my intention to deceive you, but you did tell me not to speak. I was just putting up one of Sherlock's coats. It amazes me that at twenty-two years old, he still leaves his clothes lying around like a toddler."

"I..." Greg tried.

"If you like," Mycroft continued, putting his arms behind him calmly, and he stepped closer. Greg's eyes took in Mycroft's polished shoes and traveled up his impeccable dark three-piece suit to his face. His short auburn curls were slicked back and precisely styled. Mycroft looked down his strong nose at Greg with a bored expression on his face. His presence was overwhelming and held an air of authority that made Greg want to shrink back. Greg was abruptly aware of his disheveled appearance and muddy feet. Why did he even come like this? What was he thinking?

"I can pass on your message, or perhaps you can wait here for Sherlock's return, although I suspect he is still down at the _dock_ ," Mycroft said, his tone laced with annoyance. 

Greg's face burned hotter at the unspoken implication, and finally, _finally_ his feet remembered how to move again. For the second time that night, he turned and flew out the room and down the stairs, barely touching the ground. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, he thought continuously on his way back to the flat, his body shaking. He rushed inside, and thankfully, his father was already in bed, so Greg was able to make his shameful sprint to his room unseen. 

He gulped hard, throwing himself on his bed and shoved his face into his pillow as if it could block the hot tears from slipping out. It just wasn't _fair_. He finally got the courage to talk to Sherlock, and he ended up spilling his guts to Mycroft _fucking_ Holmes. Eventually, the tears slowed, and despite Greg's face aching and stuffed up nose, he started to drift off to an emotionally exhausted sleep. His last thought before the darkness took over was that for the first time in a long time, Paris didn't seem like a bad idea.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr ](https://thesilverapplesofthemoon.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
